Page 130 of My Three Billionaire Rockstars

Behind me, Nina becomes very interested in basil.

I glare at him, because it’s the only thing stopping me from doing something worse, like kissing him back in the middle of Redemption Square while my sister pretends not to witness my collapse.

“This,” I say, furious and entirely too breathless, “is why you’re impossible.”

His gaze drops briefly to my mouth, then lifts again. “Go home, Willow.”

I blink at him. “Did you just kiss me and then dismiss me?”

“Yes.”

“That’s insane behavior.”

“Probably.”

Nina chooses that moment to rejoin us, smile suspiciously neutral. “Everything okay?”

“No,” I say.

“Yes,” Xander says at the same time.

She nods like that tells her everything she needed to know. I tighten my grip on Daisy’s leash and glare at both of them in turn. “I’m surrounded by enemies.”

“Family,” Nina corrects.

“Menace,” I say, looking at Xander.

He inclines his head, like he’ll take it, and somehow that’s worse than arguing.

We part at the edge of the square. Nina still carrying half the market, Daisy still trotting like she’s won, me trying very hard not to touch my mouth like a teenager in a bad movie.

I make it exactly twelve seconds before Nina says, “So.”

I keep walking. “No.”

She laughs.

And beside us, Daisy sneezes again, like even she knows I never had a chance.

TWENTY-TWO

Julian

Iknow Gabe’s handwriting better than most people know their own mother’s.

You don’t spend years building an empire with someone without learning the shape of the way they think, and Gabe thinks in columns. In neat blocks. In coded little systems that only look casual if you’ve never watched him reorganize an entire contract folder because one page was half a centimeter out of line.

His notes are the same.

Which is why one wrong detail jumps out at me.

We’re in the upstairs office at Hawthorne House, the one Gabe claimed without ever having to say it out loud. It looks exactly as you’d expect. Everything in its place. Dark wood desk. Low shelves. Files lined up. Pens arranged by type, not color, because he’s a psychopath with standards.

He’s at the far end of the room on a call, discussing tour logistics for a band out of Chicago that still seems to think relocating for any length of time to a small town in upstate New York will somehow kill their credibility. Gabe’s fixing that in three sentences and a promise about creative control.

I’m half listening, half doing what I usually do in here, which is annoying him by existing near his desk while pretending I’m helping.

To be fair, I did come up to ask about the Wild Hearts deal.